"Ugh, what a day," Yolanda muttered, already halfway through packing up her things. I'd forgotten how obsessively neat she was—each item tucked away with surgical precision. Her bag looked untouched, as if she'd just left for school and never returned. It was one of her most admirable quirks. She was like a real-life Barbie, pristine and poised in her own curated way.
"Mine isn't even over," I groaned, slumping against the desk. "I still have to give Daniel a tour, and dinner's at eight." The sigh that escaped my lips felt like it carried the weight of the entire day.
"That's a lot," Omar chimed in, stretching after soccer practice. "I'd probably just head home after practice. What about you, Yolanda?" He said her name with a teasing lilt, almost seductive, though I doubt he realized it.
"I have to pretend I want to go shopping with Julia for my vlog," she sighed, rolling her eyes. Her tone was flat, but her frustration was palpable.
I wondered if people like Zayn also faked their way through life for status, or if he was truly the person the internet made him out to be.
"Hello, ladies," Daniel's voice cut through the air like a blade. I had hoped he'd forget about the tour.
"At this point, who doesn't know you?" I turned to Omar with a smirk.
I finally packed my bag—nowhere near as neat as Yolanda's. As I zipped it shut, I couldn't help but wonder why Daniel needed a tour in the first place. I thought he was heading home after class. Yet here he was, approaching me like I hadn't already been cold enough.
"Looks like she has a date," Yolanda blurted out.
She never filtered her thoughts. Some people found that endearing. I didn't. Not now. Not with him standing right there.
"Shut up," I hissed, and we both left the classroom.
I was relieved we were doing this after school. At private schools like Rosewood, no one lingered after hours. Everyone had somewhere glamorous to be or someone glamorous to see. I couldn't imagine walking through the halls with students swarming around, especially after the incident earlier. I prayed I wouldn't see his face again.
"Hey, you're all red. I can't possibly be that bad," Daniel said, noticing the flush on my cheeks.
It wasn't him. It wasn't Zayn. I was just out of sunscreen, and the evening sun was beginning to sting.
"It's the sun," I grumbled.
We passed the chemistry lab. I didn't bother pointing it out—we probably had the same subjects anyway.
"Here," he said, handing me a yellow tube. My eyes widened. It was the exact sunscreen I'd just run out of.
I hesitated. I'd been so dismissive of him. But if I didn't take it, my skin would turn to ash.
"Thanks," I muttered, applying it quickly.
"So…" he tried again, clearly fishing for conversation.
I handed the tube back, uninterested. My screen read 4:43. I was already late. Mom needed me in the kitchen tonight—of all nights.
"We probably got off on the wrong foot. I apologize," he said.
Guilt twisted in my stomach. I wasn't a mean girl. I just had bad timing.
"It's never that deep," I replied, instantly regretting it. I sounded cold again. I should've just stayed quiet.
An awkward silence settled between us. I glanced at his face. He didn't look offended. Maybe he was good at hiding it. Or maybe he just didn't care.
"I guess I don't need to say much since the soccer players are already there," I said, trying to sound cheerful. I hoped he didn't notice I was faking it.
"Omar's kinda good," he said, watching the players struggle to take the ball from him.
My phone buzzed loudly. Not Instagram this time—Mom had texted me twenty minutes ago and was now calling. It was 5:30.
"Oh shoot, I'm late. I gotta go," I said, turning to leave.
"You don't need a ride?" he called after me.
No way. I wasn't letting Daniel drive me home.
I pretended not to hear him, quickening my pace in case he tried to follow.
Time seemed to speed up. Five minutes passed, and I still hadn't reached the school gate. At this rate, Mom was going to feed me to her guests.
Two Uber drivers canceled on me. The third car that arrived smelled like expensive perfume—like it had just chauffeured a millionaire's daughter. Rosewood had its perks, but I preferred the gritty pulse of New York to the eerie silence of the rich.
Sometimes I wondered how we even afforded rent here. Then I remembered: my father, the entertainment lawyer who made his fortune overcharging celebrities. His father was a politician. Mom, on the other hand, had lived a different life—bartending until their split. That's when her cyber security degree finally came in handy. She worked for big companies now, sometimes even the government. She was still adjusting, but she was doing better than I was.
"We've arrived at our destination," the driver said, sounding like a Disney chaperone. I sent the money via CashApp and stepped out.
I stood in front of the house, hesitant. Mom would be furious. I opened the door, and the scent of garlic bread and roasted chicken wrapped around me like a warm hug.
"Zel?" she called from the kitchen window.
She wasn't mad. The cooking must've soothed her nerves.
"Well, you're late. It's past six," she said plainly.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, heading upstairs. The aroma followed me, making my stomach ache with hunger.
A cold shower was my salvation. I emerged refreshed, slipping into my oversized Hellstar T-shirt and favorite blue shorts. I wondered how Yolanda felt after a shower—she was always so put together. Do girls like that even Poo?
I walked to my dresser, where my body mists stood like soldiers. Tonight was special for Mom. I chose the most expensive one.
"Fuck, I forgot to get sunscreen," I muttered. The burns on my cheeks still stung. I couldn't go to the mart—not with Mom in the kitchen.
I grabbed my phone and texted the group chat with Yolanda and Omar.
"Could someone get me sunscreen???"
Yolanda replied instantly: "Sure x". She was probably still at the mall.
I realized I hadn't checked my socials all day. I opened Instagram and was hit with a flood of new followers—1.2k from today's embarrassment. My posts were blowing up. Compliments, jabs, emojis. And of course, the video of me scraping ketchup on my uniform.
Surprisingly, I didn't care. Two weeks from now, no one would remember.
"Zel!" Mom's voice snapped me out of it.
I rushed downstairs, nearly tripping.
"Help me with the table, dammit!" It was almost 8, and she was spiraling. Who else to blame but me?
I lit candles, set plates, cutlery, and cups. I tried to calm her.
"You're doing perfect, Mom. You look beautiful. The food smells divine. Just breathe."
I held her hands like she had held mine earlier. No more words—just a gentle pat.
"Thanks, sweetie," she said, her eyes softening.
The doorbell rang.
Terrible timing. Just as Mom had finally calmed down, the doorbell rang. I glanced at her, expecting panic—but she held her composure like a seasoned actress. That was Mom: unshakable, graceful under pressure, always finding a way to make things work no matter how chaotic they got.
"Go upstairs and pretend you're just coming down. Fix your hair," she whispered, her voice low and urgent.
I obeyed instantly, retreating to my room even though my hair was perfectly fine. Still, I grabbed my comb and ran it through my brown strands one more time, smoothing them out with mechanical precision. My heart was thudding—not from nerves, but from the strange anticipation that hung in the air like static.
Then I heard it—a man's voice. Deep, velvety, and impossibly smooth. The kind of voice you'd hear echoing across a golf course, wrapped in wealth and confidence. I couldn't explain it, but it had a texture to it, like silk woven with authority.
I walked down the stairs, forcing the most genuine smile I'd worn in weeks. It felt foreign on my face, but necessary.
"Ah, Zelda," the man said warmly, his eyes crinkling with charm. "I've heard so much about you. You're even more beautiful than described."
Poor man. He had no idea how compliments made my skin crawl. But if he was the one who'd been making Mom smile these past few months, I was willing to endure a thousand of them. I kept the smile plastered on, even as my insides squirmed.
"Thank you," I replied, nearly bowing out of sheer instinct. His entire presence felt like something out of an old English castle—his accent, his tailored suit, the way he carried himself with effortless elegance. I wished Dad had taken a few notes from this gentleman.
"Ah, my son should be here any moment," he added casually.
That's when I caught it—an Italian undertone buried beneath his British accent. It was subtle, but unmistakable.
"Oh, here he is," he said, turning toward the door.
And then it happened.
The door opened, and I felt my soul leave my body. I had never wanted the earth to swallow me whole more than I did in that moment. Standing there, in all his unbothered glory, was Daniel.
What. The. Hell.
Why didn't he look surprised? Why wasn't he as stunned as I was? Had his father told him about me? Had he done some creepy deep-dive into my life?
"Aye, Danilo. He's heard about you," the man said proudly.
Danilo? As in Danilo, the Italian name? Not Daniel?
The smile on my face collapsed into a stunned gape. My brain scrambled to catch up, but all I could think was—
This night just took a turn I wasn't ready for.